


the rules of deconstruction

by owltrocious



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Coping Mechanisms, Group Sex, Kink, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, OT5, rough, the dream pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 08:59:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6464077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owltrocious/pseuds/owltrocious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"K," Prokopenko says, leaning against the doorframe. </p><p>The lights are low in the basement bedroom—the lamp in the far corner has been turned on, but the overheads are off. The butter-soft glow casts strange soft curves on the huddle of blankets and skin that is Joseph Kavinsky in the center of the mattress, sheet pulled off the corner to cocoon himself further. He snarls, wordless, and his shoulders flinch tighter. Prokopenko watches his bare toes curl up. </p><p>[Or: the pack help Kavinsky get out of his head. He retaliates.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	the rules of deconstruction

  
 

"K," Prokopenko says, leaning against the doorframe.

The lights are low in the basement bedroom—the lamp in the far corner has been turned on, but the overheads are off. The butter-soft glow casts strange soft curves on the huddle of blankets and skin that is Joseph Kavinsky in the center of the mattress, sheet pulled off the corner to cocoon himself further. He snarls, wordless, and his shoulders flinch tighter. Prokopenko watches his bare toes curl up.

He's been in bed for seventeen hours. There's a bottle he's been pissing in on the floor, in his reach. Proko wrinkles his nose. The handful of pills on the night-stand has dwindled significantly since he left them there, hoping it would do something, but Kavinsky won't even look at him. Jiang is upstairs, trying to make a smoothie out of the shit he found in the kitchen: some yogurt, a couple of bananas, a jar of Nutella. He bet Prokopenko fifty bucks he couldn't get Kavinsky to eat it, even if he ground up a couple of bars to put in too.

 Proko gets his phone out and texts the remaining boys: _come help fix K_

This isn't going to be pretty, but he'll appreciate the effort later.

It's the third time in four months, and Prokopenko is starting to feel something he thinks is anger. It also might be fear, but he's far less acquainted with that after the accident. There's something about being put back together out of a teenage drug-dealer's head that makes a person doubt the validity of fight or flight reflexes. He thinks about Lynch and Kavinsky's bruised wrists and split lip three nights back, figures he might put his fist through the wall. Decides to save it so he can get this show on the road.

He wanders back out into the basement proper, considers and discards the idea of the theater seats. Instead he drags an end-table across to the other side of the room, shoves the couch out from the wall so in the center of the floor there's couch-and-table with no other obstructions. Jiang comes down in a threadbare pair of K's boxers, juggling three kitsch mason jars full of noxious looking breakfast sludge. He's scowling. Proko takes one from him and says, "We're stopping this. I texted Skov and Swan."

"Okay," Jiang says. He takes a swallow of the smoothie and makes a face. "Got a plan?"

"Find a few needles and get your ink," Proko says. Jiang raises his eyebrows.

"Slow and hard, huh," he says.

 "Traditional," Proko responds.

 He sits on the couch to wait, forcing down the concoction and putting Kavinsky's off to the side. He'll need it when they're done. He'll drink it, when they're finished with him. Proko closes his eyes and breathes in, out, because this isn't his natural predilection: he'd rather let his king direct him, help take apart somebody who likes being the center of vicious attention like Skov, let _himself_ be burned to ash under the heat of hands and teeth.

 It's necessary, though.

Skov is the one who comes downstairs first, skintight pants and skintight shirt and white-blonde curls haloing his face in contrast to the dark natural brunette of his shaved undercut. His jaw is a blooming bruise and his knuckles are taped.

"Fight?" Proko asks.

 "Swan," he responds.

As if called, the other young man appears behind him and wraps a hand around the back of his neck. He leans into it. Proko wonders if he interrupted something, doesn't care. He's tired. He wonders if Kavinsky is listening to them through the bedroom door.

"Once Jiang gets back, we do this," Prokopenko says.

"All right," Skov agrees. Swan nods as well.

The tension in the air is thick.

"He saw Lynch, came back, got shithoused and stopped eating, et cetera," Prokopenko murmurs to them. "He's bruised up. Like he got somewhere, but not where he wanted to get."

"God I'm fucking sick of their shit," Swan mutters.

"Lynch hates himself more than he hates K," Skov says. "No fixing that."

Jiang chooses that moment to return, sets up his prizes on the table with a rag and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. He also, after a moment's consideration, takes out his pocket knife—the one Kavinsky gave him—and puts it in reach as well. Proko nods, and he and Swan take point into the bedroom. Kavinsky lifts his head enough to stare, recoiling as they prowl around him: Swan at his feet and Proko at the side of the bed.

"Easy or difficult?" Swan asks.

Kavinsky kicks him when he reaches out so Prokopenko hauls him by his wrists at the same moment Swan locks down both of his legs. They wrestle him snapping and shoving to the floor, sheets and all, then Proko drags him out of the bedroom into the light. His eyes are bruise-dark and full of blank rage; he's fighting them like he means it, but Kavinsky forgets as they all do that of the pack, only Jiang is smaller—only Jiang is lighter, and weaker; his other dogs are stronger and faster and each learned tender cruelty at his right hand.

"Get the fuck off," he rasps out as Swan strips the blankets away from him, baring his half-naked misery and the handprint wrapped around his hip above the low-slung waist of his underwear. All four freeze.

Skov's face is blank. Swan growls, low and menacing. Jiang waits at the table.

"Forget it," Prokopenko says. He doesn't know who he's telling. "This is happening, now. This is what you need."

Swan pins Kavinsky's ankles between his elbows and his hipbones. He stands and Proko tucks his arms under the smaller boy's torso to lift him. They carry him to the couch and Proko collapses back onto it with Kavinsky's weight on his lap. Skov helps wrestle the scrap of underwear off, leaving him vulnerable and nude. Proko gets his knees open, one arm around his chest and the other dragging red lines onto his thigh as he hooks Kavinsky's legs between his own and the couch. The fight stills suddenly as Swan leans over the back of the couch and wraps both of his broad hands around Kavinsky's neck.

"Ssh," Swan soothes him, squeezing. "We've got this."

Jiang kneels between his spread legs and ignores the obvious focal point to wipe alcohol over his upper thigh, under the crease of his hip. He's got an open pod of ink and a little bundle of needles he's rubber-banded together. Kavinsky's hands hover like he's going to hit somebody, if he can decide who, so Skov grabs them and yanks his wrists to one side. All of their hands have found space on his body; he's utterly restrained. He pants between them, twisting.

Prokopenko tucks his chin over his collarbone and watches his dick start to fill out, lift toward his stomach. Pavolvian response. Jiang sets the needles in ink and then jabs them against white taut skin. Kavinsky bucks, soundless, but their hands are immoveable. Jiang does it again, tongue between his teeth, focused. This time Kavinsky grunts. Proko noses against Swan's knuckles, finds no purchase, and sinks his teeth into Kavinsky's shoulder instead. Swan flexes his fingers arhythmically, one moment relaxed and the next cutting off K's struggle for air. His breath rustles the hair on top of Proko's head. It's all very _close_.

Kavinsky goes limp after five minutes. His breath comes in wrecked coughs and gasps after ten. Jiang works thoughtfully, without distraction. Proko doesn't miss that Skov's watching the blood and ink with a sharklike intensity, doesn't miss that Kavinsky's hard-on is spectacular and that his dick twitches against his stomach sometimes when the needles go into his thigh. Swan always likes ruining someone under his hands. The tone is shifting. Proko lets go of the thigh he's been holding, shakes out his fingers from their iron grip, and slots them into Kavinsky's open mouth. Teeth snap shut but not hard enough to mean it. He pushes past that resistance to press knuckles at the back of K's throat, feels the silky chewed-raw insides of his lips on the slide out.

He wriggles his hand underneath them, wrist at an aching angle, but it's enough. He works those two spit-slick fingers into Kavinsky's ass while Jiang watches, momentarily focused on the sudden floorshow inches from his face. Kavinsky moans, low and gravel-hard, gravel-broken. Proko isn't going to thrust; he gets in all the way to his hand and stills, letting Jiang finish.

It's a blurry blue-black crown, finally, when he wipes away the blood and excess with the rag.

"Fuck," Kavinsky growls, ragged. Swan chokes him quiet a moment later, so tight he isn't breathing, and Proko flexes his hand a bit.

Skov elbows Jiang out from between Kavinsky's legs and kneels there himself, pressing a kiss to the new tattoo and then dragging his thumb over it. His smile is possessive. Proko thinks that if Kavinsky could see it, if his eyes weren't closed and his whole body not sagging near to passing out, he'd hate it: hate being owned. Except it meant he belonged, too, always. He'd built this pack; it was his.

"I wanna fuck him first," Skov says.

"Okay," Prokopenko agrees.

Swan lets go. Kavinsky shudders and sucks in a hard breath, turns his head and bites at Proko's cheek, his jaw. "You fuck," he groans. He's shaking in Prokopenko's arms. It's eerie and intense and intimate.

Jiang clambers up onto the arm of the couch and Prokopenko tilts Kavinsky's face in his direction, lets him guide his prick into the waiting mouth with a soft sigh. Jiang's fingers are stained with ink. He cradles Kavinsky's jaw and holds him still. Proko takes his fingers out and Skov angles Kavinsky's hips. Swan crosses to the front of the couch and tosses a bottle of oil to him so he can slick himself up.

This is less about the fucking, Proko knows, and more about the staking of a claim. Skov lines up and his hips and thighs are a scorching weight against Proko's own. He wonders how it feels for Kavinsky, rough cloth and zippers from both of them and his own skin stripped bare. No one else is nude, though Jiang is closest. Skov sinks in slow, all of them relishing the almost-wounded hiss that escapes Kavinsky's mouth as he opens to it. Jiang uses the moment to slide deeper as well.

There's not much rhythm. Proko holds Kavinsky around his waist while the other two use him between them. The couch dips when Swan sits, crossing one ankle over his knee to watch. Skov is meaner than usual—he grinds in hard and harder, steady, breathing through his nose to keep calm like he wants it to last as long as possible. Kavinsky's muffled gasps and grunts gain in pitch, fervor, as Skov thrusts. He is relentless. Proko watches him smile, satisfied, hair sticking to his forehead in a pale cloud. The bass impact of his hips travels through Kavinsky to Proko, and he aches with it, with holding his writhing lapful of bones and muscle and blood in the shape of a damaged boy. Swan reaches over and then three of his fingers are past Proko's lips, stretching his jaw open.

Proko sighs. His skin feels tight. The bruising force of Swan's hand crammed into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue and slotting between his teeth, eases it a touch. Jiang comes a moment later with a pointed moan, semen spilling over Kavinsky's lips and chin in a rush. He staggers off of the couch, smiling soft and blank, and sits on the floor to rest his face against the outside of K's thigh next to the new tattoo. Skov moans, loud and sharp, and bows his head. Kavinsky strains against him and Prokopenko knows he must be coming, too, imagines the hot slickness of it. His own control is slipping. He wraps his hand around Kavinsky's dick and strokes the head, slippery and smooth-gliding skin, until he's trembling again and then climaxes in a brief gush over Proko's fingers and Skov's stomach.

Skov eases himself out, sits back on his heels. He and Jiang move Kavinsky to the floor with them. He's back behind his own eyes, watching Proko with bright intent even if his body is too wrung out to follow through.

"Swan," K says. "Fuck Proko."

Prokopenko rolls his glance over to Swan and swallows. He understands it's Kavinsky's way of getting his own back, whether he needed to be taken down into himself or not, because he can't let this level of insubordination stand. Proko struggles out of his pants while Swan watches, haughty and patient. He's achingly erect. He's been holding it together admirably well, but he almost cries with relief when Swan stands, considers him, and then backhands him so hard he stumbles against the table and nearly falls.

A hand in his shirt collar rights him and shoves him down, knees grinding into the carpet, face-first into the cushions. He whines. Kavinsky laughs, low and cruel, and Skov yelps. He doesn't have room to wonder about that, because Swan's forcing his thumb and first finger into him without preamble. It's going to take a lot more than that, he knows: Swan is alarmingly well-endowed, to the point that the only person who manages to take it from him with any kind of regularity is Skov.

Skov, who thinks being punched in the face until he has a concussion constitutes foreplay. Skov is not a good measure for limits. Proko submits to it, though, because he feels unsettled and unseated and if K's not well enough to push him—well, he has the pack for that. Swan spreads his fingers and stretches him, turning his wrist and tucking another digit in. Proko attempts to relax while he pants and clutches at the couch cushions.

"I bet it was good, seeing him get marked up," Swan murmurs behind him. "He's ours. He can't take that shit off, he can't erase it, you put it under his skin."

The sound Proko makes is _strangled_ , either because Swan is prying him open with what feels like his whole fucking hand or because those words set off a detonation of pleasure in his guts.

"Slut," Kavinsky says affectionately from beside them. Jiang laughs, but it's not unkind.

"Come on, Swan," Skov says, eager. Proko makes a note of that for himself in the corner of his mind that isn't taken up with burning fullness that has transcended pleasure or pain into sheer _intensity_.

"Bet I'll make you come," Swan murmurs against his neck and then he slides his fingers out, knuckles catching on the sore-stretched rim of Proko's hole.

The head of his cock is blunt and broad and doesn't slip right in; Proko feels a small bone-deep shiver of emotion, a blank-terrified arousal. Swan has to lean his weight against Proko's back, incrementally more and more, until finally the pressure isn’t pressure but _opening_. Proko's whimper escalates hard into a shout as the first inch or so forces him wide. Swan shushes him and keeps pushing, merciless and glacial in his pace.

Proko snaps at the hand that tries to turn his head by the hair, eyes wet. Kavinsky smiles coldly down at him. "This is the third time, haven't you learned how yet?"

"He's fine," Swan drawls. He sounds utterly in control.

"I doubt it," Jiang murmurs.

Proko thinks Jiang has it right, but Swan hasn't stopped moving, small shoves and smaller withdrawals, and it isn't specifically that it hurts—it's that it's so _much_. The real solid ache is part of that; overwhelming fullness is the majority. Kavinsky keeps a hand in his hair so he can't hide his face and then Swan bucks his hips in one full thrust that forces him in until his hipbones are up against Proko's ass.

He can't even make a sound. There's no air in his lungs.

"Cry for it," Kavinsky snarls.

Proko sobs, but it isn't on command. It's because Kavinsky's staring him down as _Kavinsky_ , instead of a miserable heap of withdrawal and stale sweat and broken hollow betrayal. Swan fucks him like punishment, incongruously calm and measured, as if this, too, isn't about the sex. He can't watch Kavinsky watch him, so he closes his eyes and doesn't even try to stifle his whining hoarse gasps, hitching in the back of his throat.

"God, that's hot," Skov groans.

Jiang hums a little agreement, and there are more hands on Proko's body. One pair skims down his spine then rubs hard on the way back up. Another takes hold of his half-soft prick and starts tugging gentle and strong. Swan has been careful, but he's getting rougher, faster. The coring glide of him is smoother too, though, as Proko's muscles have stopped clinging quite so hard.  Proko doesn't think he's going to climax until Skov pushes a hand against his lower stomach with a passionate, filthy groan—he thinks deliriously _oh fuck I bet he can feel that through me fuck_ —but at the intense pressure he does, unable to clench or tighten at all around the intrusion but pulsing with it.

He's screaming. It echoes in his ears. Swan growls and tilts his hips almost out, shallow, working the head of his dick in brutal tight small thrusts until he comes in one hot pulse after another, making a mess of Proko's ass and thighs as it drips free on his withdrawal. Kavinsky hums his satisfaction and then there's a pile of them on the floor, Proko snorting back tears and Skov grinning at him like he's run a marathon or crashed his car.

"Jesus, how do you ever do that," he finally manages.

"It hurts," is all he says in response, "but you took it good, too."

"Poor Proko," Swan mutters against his hair.

"Poor me, I look like a fucking convict," Kavinsky bitches at the lot of them, pointing to the tattoo, but he's loose-limbed and relaxed in the center of the pile and Prokopenko can finally breathe again.

 

           

 


End file.
